Tanzina Vega is a contributing Globe Opinion writer.
If there was ever a marker for the passage of time, watching an infant turn into a 5-year-old is it. From being a tiny bundle of flesh, giggles, and softness to becoming a kindergartener with two missing front teeth who loves art, ice cream, and cars, my son has forced me to acknowledge not just the passage of time but how it’s affected us both since 2020, the year he was born.
It was five Aprils ago that I was isolating alone with my newborn son. By that time, COVID-19 lockdowns had begun in earnest, and our collective lives came to a screeching halt. It felt like walking through a portal to a new world that I was absolutely unprepared for. New motherhood, 45-year-old motherhood, single motherhood, and COVID-19 pandemic motherhood all came at once. What didn’t come was “the village” new mothers talk about that helps ease the transition to parenthood. My social networks — friends, family, and work colleagues — frayed when I needed them most.
Five years later, my social circle remains small, but this time it’s a deliberate choice on my part. A big part of what I’ve gotten better at since those early COVID days is discerning who and what matters most — and no, it’s not just motherhood. It’s also my career. Before 2020 I had been on an upward trajectory as a journalist that was really only possible because I gave absolutely everything I had to it.
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It was a rewarding path, but I was also keenly aware that I had missed many opportunities and milestones along the way, including marriage, parenthood, and owning a home. By the time 2021 rolled around, I was burned out and hosting a radio show from a coat closet while the pandemic raged outside and my baby crawled around the apartment.
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That April, I made the gut-wrenching decision to resign from the job I probably loved the most in my entire career: hosting a public radio show called “The Takeaway.” The exit was bumpy, but I felt immediate relief at being out of what had become an untenable situation for me and my son. Sadly, one consequence of stepping away was a further strain on my social networks. Breaking that connection between who I am as a person and what I do for a living has been a major part of my journey.
I wanted to leave behind relationships that no longer served me emotionally, spiritually, or intellectually. There are days when doing so has made me feel like I’m free-falling into the abyss of a world that is, quite literally, on fire. I’ve watched the media industry struggle to stay afloat while talented journalists realize they can’t make a sustainable living or find permanent work.
Since leaving public radio I’ve experienced my own share of job struggles, including my first layoff, my first time receiving unemployment benefits, and my first time accessing a child-care voucher. These have been humbling experiences, for sure, but they have also been reminders of how quickly things can change and how much we need social safety nets to help people when they are down.
I also learned that leaning into motherhood alone isn’t enough for me. I still want to contribute to the world of ideas and to the conversation about what’s happening in our country. I’ve learned that my contributions may look different today than they did before the pandemic, but that’s OK.
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Today I get to walk my son to school, help him with his homework, and finally have playdates with other kids. Personally, I’ve opened up to love again and am enjoying deepening my friendships. Professionally, I’ve had the benefit of working with wonderful editors on a variety of projects, including hosting a news show on social media, interviewing PhDs about their work, running a newsletter, and teaching journalism.
I think about the student who was writing an article about a queer party in Los Angeles and taught me about Chappell Roan, or my students in Texas and Florida who were managing hurricanes and other natural disasters while trying to meet their deadlines. Today, I am interviewing older Americans for a research project and feeling deeply inspired by the idea of cross-generational leadership. I even started my own podcast called “The New Middle,” about the precarity of the middle class in the United States.
But perhaps the biggest milestone that I’ve reached in these past five years is turning 50.
Parenting as an older mom is bittersweet. I am wiser than I would have been when I was in my 20s. I am happy to go to bed at 9 p.m. But I’m also aware that I may not be around for as long as I’d like to be for my son.
A big part of my 50th birthday celebration was some alone time in Sedona, Ariz., where I took myself out for dinner. It was just a few weeks out from the 2024 presidential election, and there was a sense of uncertainty in the air. People refrained from political talk. This level of vigilance makes me sad for my son’s future and for the future of so many young people. I want them to feel as inspired and free as I did to move about the world.
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Five Aprils ago I wrote a journal entry to my son about what was happening around us as COVID bore down. The April 6, 2020, entry read in part: “Your world is small, confined to 1,000 square feet right now and just me, your momma. But I pray that one day it will get bigger and you can meet the rest of your family and we can go for walks in the park … I’m gonna protect you, Gabriel, and hopefully make life wonderful for you despite the madness.”
As the first signs of spring began to emerge this year, my son was sitting on my lap, his small legs dangling next to mine, when I noticed something odd about our wall calendar. Through a slightly toothless grin, he looked at me and said, “Mom, it’s time to change the page to April.”
And so I did.
